


My Dinner with Sakic

by abstractconcept



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Exhibitionism, Foot Jobs, Frottage, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Semi-Public Sex, sexual acts in front of an unconsenting third party, under the table sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 12:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2067909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick always thought Matt and Joe were a lot alike; talented, humble, and impeccably well-mannered. But like many hockey players, Matt is a little bit of an adrenaline junky, too, and sometimes, his table manners are atrocious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Dinner with Sakic

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Hastybrook's tasty prompt: _uh, duchene rubbing at a hickey and driving roy nuts because he knows he put it there and duchene keeps giving him those looks?_

“Yeah, it’s been a really great experience. I can’t thank you guys enough, really,” Matt said. Patrick watched him beam at Sakic, one hand on his glass of wine. The dinner had been a reward, in a way, for Matt’s play and dedication to the team. The restaurant was five star, dark wood, great food, old wines, all the trimmings. Matt had eaten it up—both the food and the attention. It was no secret that he’d worshiped Roy and Sakic growing up.

“I think it’s going to be a good year,” Joe said. 

“It’ll be a great year,” Matt promised. “I mean, if we can keep up the energy and commitment we had last year, we’re going to go really far.” He reached up, fingering his collar with his left hand, then dropped his hand again when Patrick loudly cleared his throat. Matt gave him a brief, all-too-innocent glance before turning back to Joe.

Joe smiled graciously. Patrick snorted. He liked Joe a lot, adored the man, honestly, but sometimes it cracked him up how fucking earnest he was. No wonder Matt wanted to be just like him. They were such boy scouts. “I’m sure you guys are gonna do great this year,” Joe agreed. He raised his glass. “To the Avs,” he proposed. “Then and now.”

“To the Avs,” Matt agreed, eagerly clinking his class against Joe’s. Patrick raised his glass as well. 

Matt glanced at him from the corner of his eye. His hand came up again, finger tracing his neck. Patrick frowned; the hickey was there, right where anyone could see, and he wished Matt would quit unconsciously drawing attention to it. “You been working hard this summer?” he asked, hoping to distract Matt—and Joe—from Matt’s neck. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m in great shape,” Dutchy told him, blinking like he thought he was Bambi or something. “They’ve been working me very hard, both on and off the ice.”

Patrick could feel the warmth start to creep up his face. Was that damn kid flirting with him right in front of Joe Sakic? He was really asking for it. “Well, if you talk about it so casual, maybe you are not being work hard enough. Maybe I got to give you extra lap or two on the ice, eh?” 

Dutchy looked innocently wounded—he did that better than anyone, his greenish hazel eyes growing big and hurt—and Joe laughed. “Lighten up,” the vice president advised. “I love your dedication, but let the kid enjoy his dessert before cracking the whip again. Besides, he works hard for the team. He deserves a night off.”

Duchene basked in Joe’s support. “Yeah, don’t be so mean to your star center,” he teased. 

Roy didn’t say anything, but the look he gave Matt promised that he’d be plenty mean later in private; as far as Patrick was concerned, the kid was well on his way to earning himself a spanking. 

Joe didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was prodding at his dessert uncertainly. Patrick knew his sweet tooth was almost non-existent. 

“The whipped buttercream is really good,” Matt remarked. He swept his index finger through the frosting and licked it off. At Patrick’s reproachful look, he quickly took is finger out of his mouth and grabbed his neck when Joe looked up, trying to look like he hadn’t been eating with his hands. 

“It’s not too bad,” Joe agreed. Patrick barely heard him. He was busy watching Dutchy’s fingers play over that red spot. Every time he looked at it, he remembered putting it there—Dutchy had been waiting for him in the front hall, buck naked, when he came home from golf a few days ago. Patrick was starting to sweat just thinking about it. Buck naked—that shameless tease. Patrick licked his lips, thinking about those buff shoulders, the perfect pecs, the abs that begged to be licked. _Oh, hell._ Matt kept giving him looks, too, those flirty fucking looks that got right under Patrick’s skin. Damn kid. 

Sucking in a deep breath, Patrick casually slipped his cloth napkin off the table and onto his lap—hopefully hiding the evidence of the hard on he was getting. 

Matt wiggled his shoulders, almost like he was strutting right there in his seat, the corner of his mouth bragging about the effect he was having. He spooned up some more buttercream, his left hand still slipping up and down his neck. 

Patrick had fucked him right up against the front door. Just lifted him up, Matt’s legs wrapped around him, using the door to take as much of Matt’s weight as possible. Holy God, it had been a very good afternoon. 

Matt popped the spoon in his mouth and made a soft little moan. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Patrick mumbled under his breath. 

Matt winked at him. 

Patrick gave him a good kick under the table. _Not in front of the boss, you fucking idiot_ , he tried to say with his eyes. 

Matt just looked at him like he had _no_ idea anything was wrong. 

“You’re not gonna have any dessert?” Joe asked Patrick politely. 

“Maybe later,” Patrick managed to grunt. 

Beneath the table, where Patrick’s foot was already near Matt’s from having kicked him, Matt began to move his foot. Slightly. Gently. Patrick gave him his grumpiest look.

“What’s the matter?” Joe asked. 

Patrick didn’t have a lot of time to recover. “That shit is fattening, and not gluten-free. He is supposed to be getting into shape, not out of it.”

“Give the kid a break. Be nice.” _Oh, simonaque,_ Patrick thought. _Save me from actual fucking saints._ He and Joe had always been complete opposites; in spite of Patrick’s nickname, he had been willing to commit any number of sins in the name of hockey, where Joe prided himself on being downright dull—“Quoteless Joe,” they called him—a classy schoolboy, a real angel. And, just at the moment, kind of a pain in the ass. 

Matt bit his lip, trying not to laugh. Fucking devil that he was. He slid his foot up, an electric touch just skimming its way up, kissing the inside of Patrick’s thigh. “Yeah, be nice,” Dutchy echoed impishly. “You’re just jealous because you won’t have a bite. It’s your own fault for putting yourself on the diet. You know I’m happy to share.”

Patrick ground his teeth and tried to swat Dutchy’s foot out of his lap, but the boy had strong, strong legs. Strong thighs. And a tight, round, perfect ass. Which Patrick had enjoyed the other day, pumping into him as Matt’s head fell back, his pale throat exposed, and Patrick had latched on, sucking, biting, _slavering_ as Matt cried out in pleasure. 

“Don’t tease your coach about his weight,” Joe advised. “Have a cookie if you want one,” he told Patrick. 

“I am _fine,_ ” Patrick growled. Matt just grinned and gave him that coquettish look from the corner of his eye. He had those long, flirty lashes that were just made for come-ons. His fingers played over that bite-mark again, inviting Patrick to think how good his skin tasted, salty and tender. 

“Well, don’t say we didn’t offer,” Dutchy said in a sing-song. He licked his spoon in a frankly salacious way. His shoe was right up against Patrick’s crotch now, and Patrick couldn’t decide if that was wonderful or horrible. Kind of fucking both, he decided when Matt wiggled his toes. Patrick couldn’t stop his hips from moving, just a little bit, searching for friction. Jesus fucking Christ, this kid. He was gonna kill him. Right here, right in the middle of the fucking restaurant. The other day, his forwardness had been cute. Hell, it’d been hot. Patrick remembered bringing Dutchy to orgasm, stroking his warm prick, drawing helpless moans from Dutchy’s mouth. He loved watching his open, vulnerable face when Matty begged him to let him come. Yeah, there was a time and place to be cute. In front of your boss was neither the time nor the place.

“Just . . . just hurry up and finish your damn dessert,” Patrick said hoarsely.

“I’m about done,” Joe said. He wasn’t eating much but he _was_ enjoying the wine. He looked at Matt. “You?” This was the last fucking time Patrick did Matt a favor by inviting him out to a nice restaurant to eat with him and Joe. He had assumed he could be an adult for five fucking seconds, not—

Matt set his spoon down and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand and giving Patrick an incredibly cheeky smile, the little bastard. “Oh, don’t worry. I think I’m just about finished.” His shoe shifted up and down, the ball of his foot pressed against Patrick’s erection, his heel lightly touching Patrick’s balls. His prick throbbed, delighted at the friction, the movement. Patrick clutched the table, nearly gouging marks in the dark wood with his stubby fingernails, his breath coming fast as Dutchy pressed his shoe against Patrick's eager cock. _Oh, Jesus._ He was going to—right here and now—right at the table—he was about to—

Matt twitched his foot, just a little, and Patrick’s eyes slammed shut. He gasped as he felt come spurt out, his prick pumping it into his shorts. _Batarnac,_ he thought. In his best fucking dress pants, too. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get himself back under control. He felt shaky. 

Dutchy smiled at him angelically and took one last, big bite and wiped his face very pointedly with his napkin. “Well, I guess I’m finished. Thank you guys so much for treating me tonight. It’s a real honor to have dinner with my heroes.”

Patrick glared at him. He could barely bring himself to glance at Sakic, but when he did, the man was rolling his eyes. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was so out of character and interesting that Patrick almost forgot his predicament—until he realized he was going to have to move his napkin. Tabouère, he was going to have a dark spot on the front of his pants. 

“Glad you had a good time,” Joe told Matt in a somewhat dry voice, gesturing for the bill. 

A few minutes later they were walking out the front door. Patrick had grabbed Matt and strategically forced him to walk in front of Patrick, blocking the view. The boy was surprisingly obedient in this—probably because he knew that if he didn’t start making things up to Patrick damn quick, Patrick would be the _only_ one who got an orgasm for the foreseeable future. 

As the valet hurried up and handed Joe his keys, Joe tipped the man and waited until he walked away. Then he turned and looked at Matt. “Apparently your parents never told you this, but penises are private parts. And I know that playing with them feels good, but touching them is something you do in private, not in public. And you shouldn’t touch anyone else’s without asking first. Understand?” He arched a brow at Matt, whose face was redder than Patrick had ever seen it. He couldn’t even answer. He just gulped and sort of nodded. “Good.” Joe turned to Patrick. “And you. I know you don’t like to play by the rules, but for Christ’s sake, you’re supposed to be setting some kind of an example. The next time he starts up some kind of shit like that you need to smack him on the nose and say _bad dog_ or something. Jesus. What do I pay you for?” 

Patrick apologized in French, too mortified to notice he wasn’t speaking English.

Joe looked at him coolly. “Usually you’re quicker with a snappy comeback,” he noted. 

Patrick blinked. “I could say something about where I gonna stick my Stanley Cup rings but somehow I think it inappropriate right now,” he croaked. 

Joe looked from Matt to Patrick. Apparently he was more or less satisfied with their response. “Fine. Now take him home and fuck him hard enough and often enough that he doesn’t have the energy for a public performance,” he said. He took the breath mint he’d taken from the check out desk and popped it in his mouth. “Goodnight,” he said, and walked away, still shaking his head in bemusement. “Fucking hot dogs are always the worst,” Roy heard him mutter. “Great in the game but always so much damn trouble off the ice.” So much for Quoteless Joe. 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Matt whispered.

Patrick loosened his tie. “Probably Forsberg. Maybe the time we find him undress in the elevator with Deadmarsh. Or that time on the roof. Or in that alley after the game. Ha, or that time in the hallway at the olympic game, when—” He cut off, realizing he'd probably already said too much. He cleared his throat.

Patrick was well and thoroughly reprimanded. Holy shit, he’d had sex in public. In front of Joe Sakic, of all people. And been caught in the act. How humiliating. Kind of. Mostly. On the other hand, he hadn’t actually objected to the relationship, which was what Roy had most worried about. And Christ, who else could say they’d fucked in a restaurant right front of Joe Sakic? That was kind of a . . . some kind of a bragging right or something, right there. The more he thought about it, the more his natural ego asserted itself. _Damn fucking right,_ it said. _I’m Patrick Roy, and I’ll fuck anywhere I goddamn please!_ He was already starting to forget that the whole thing hadn’t been his idea in the first place. He turned to Matt and offered him a sheepish grin. “You okay?” Dutchy nodded bashfully. “What you wanna do now?”

Matt looked after Joe’s car, the left blinker on, turning down the street. “Well. You know. He’s the boss. I say we do what he says,” he said. He turned to Patrick and said seriously, “I think you should take me home and fuck me until I’ve learned my lesson.”

That goddamn kid. He wasn’t sorry at all. Patrick had to laugh. He stepped forward and grabbed his keys from the valet. “You know, I use to think you were just like Joe. Straight shooter, real boy scout.”

Matt gave him a look that was something between a grimace and a grin. “Somehow he seems less like a boy scout to me than he did yesterday,” he admitted. 

“He didn’t get where he is by being stupid. He read the ice good, but he read his teammate even better. But he don’t tolerate any dicking around. That’s why he was the captain.” Patrick looked Dutchy over. He walked over to the car and opened Matt’s door for him. 

Matt laughed. “And they say chivalry is dead.” Patrick closed the door. 

As he slid in next to Matt and buckled his seatbelt, he grinned as he adjusted the mirror. “You know something, though? Now I think, maybe, maybe you are a bit more like me. You know. An asshole.”

Matt laughed hard. “What can I say? Sometimes you have to play dirty if you want to win.”

Patrick couldn’t argue with that.


End file.
